


He really can’t breathe.

by Luna_sharp618



Category: BBC Sherlock
Genre: Learning to Dance, M/M, Pining, Sherlock teaching john to dance for the wedding, sherlocks a sad gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-11
Updated: 2018-04-11
Packaged: 2019-04-21 13:15:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14285712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luna_sharp618/pseuds/Luna_sharp618
Summary: In which Sherlock teaches John how to dip his dance partner for the wedding and has some pining thoughts.





	He really can’t breathe.

Sherlock dips John first to show him how. He never liked being the dipper. He never liked to lead, even if his personality told you otherwise. 

Now it’s John’s turn.

Sherlock gives himself up easily. Trusting completely in John. He always has. Always will. He bends like the most delicate flower, allowing himself to be held by John’s steady hands.

He feels John’s left planted firmly upon the small of his back. His hand doesn’t twitch. Just securely keeping Sherlock suspended against him. Like he’s floating endlessly in the most tranquil pool of water. 

He can’t breathe. 

Their faces are inches apart and his mind indulgently-traitorously- implants the exact feel of John’s calloused but warm, life saving hand grasping his own. Those hands have given and taken so many lives. Healed people and destroyed them. Like he had done to Sherlock. Giving him a heart then cruelly stealing it as it just only began to beat again.

He really couldn’t breathe. 

John’s breath was ghosting over his jaw right now. His breath was warm but heavy. It skipped playfully across Sherlock’s throat, just under his ear and down under his shirt. If only it was the doctor’s lips tracing his milky skin and not his breath. 

He can feel John’s hand slip slightly on the small of his back. He can’t hold this position forever. They can’t hold eachother like this forever. John will have to let him go soon. Let him fall. He’ll fall and fall and fall. Forever falling. No longer floating in this tranquil pool of water they have secluded themselves in.

Sherlock’s heart stutters for a moment. In a panic he foolishly seeks to find John’s eyes. Those gorgeous blue eyes. Those gorgeous deep blue eyes that are staring right back at him. Looking at him. Looking deep into him. If only those eyes were the first thing he saw every day, staring right back at him across a pillow, still bleary with sleep but all the same, it would be his eyes. 

‘If this was a movie, this is when he’d kiss me’ 

Sherlock could feel it. What it would be like. Those lips against his own. He’s spent so many lonely nights thinking about it. Mourning it. But how can you mourn something you never had. You are never going to have. 

He watched John lick his top lip. He felt his lungs squeeze out a final breath. 

This wasn’t a movie. 

He wasn’t floating. 

He was drowning. 

Sherlock tears his gaze away from John’s with an impatient huff. Like pulling the plug on a bath, the water drained away. It takes him a lot of strength to untangle his hand from John’s. But he does. He has to. He can’t breathe. 

John helps pull him back into his feet. Back up to the surface. He can breathe here but it burns his lungs when that first breath slams through him. His body feels cold. He no longer has the warmth of John holding him. Suspending him in a paused moment of time. Just him and John. Them together. Forever. 

But this isn’t a movie. 

He steps away from John’s hands. Avoiding his gaze, he’d be crushed right now by the pressure around them if he got caught in its torrent. It’s piercing, deep blue torrent. 

“That-that was good” Sherlock states, regaining his collected composure. 

“Oh, well thank you” John replies before looking down at his watch “well I should get-“ 

“Yes” Sherlock agrees, quickly. He turns around on the spot reaching for his violin.

He can’t bare to hear John leave him. So he drowns him out, the sorrowful scream of his violin opening the flood waters to help wash away these feelings. But even with the water rushing in his head he can still hear that little click of the lock. 

Shutting him in. Alone. With only a disgruntled brain and an aching pain in his chest to keep him company. 

He drops the violin upon his chair and heads to his bedroom. 

To drain away the few salty drops of water that were still lingering behind those pining grey eyes. Alone. 

After all, this wasn’t a movie.


End file.
